


An Oath to Live

by eldritcher



Series: The Journal of Maglor [8]
Category: The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-05-25
Updated: 2015-05-25
Packaged: 2018-04-01 05:02:59
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,942
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4006825
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/eldritcher/pseuds/eldritcher
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>I swore an oath; an oath to live - to live as I had never lived before. It was the best oath I had sworn.</p>
            </blockquote>





	An Oath to Live

“Do let me,” Macalaurë hissed impatiently. “You cannot do it by yourself.”

“I will be the judge of that, thank you.” I spared him a glare before stubbornly returning to my task. 

“Call for me after you come to the inevitable conclusion,” he said acerbically. “Now, I must see to my own preparations.”

I suppressed a smile as he stormed out of the tent. Among us all, he was the one who resembled our father the most. My amusement turned into profound irritation when my clumsy fingers refused to cooperate. It was vexing to know that I could not manage even to put on my boots without someone’s aid. I gritted my teeth and bent over resolutely, possessing myself in patience and reapplying my fingers to the task. 

Under normal circumstances, I would not mind being helped by Macalaurë. In fact, I actually liked him fussing over me. But it was day of the great feast and I was nervous. Though I was reasonably sure that I could act well enough to gracefully hand over the kingship to my uncle, I feared the rest of it. I would have to greet the guests, dance with my cousins and stay cheerful and relaxed all through the night. 

I should have met Findekáno before the event. Our activities always left me mentally fortified. But the physical exhaustion would be telling and I feared that might betray my secret at the feast. It would not do. So I had to rely on my severely lacking courage to get me through the night. 

“Idiot,” Macalaurë’s voice informed me.

“I know.” I looked up at him with a wan smile.

“We are late. Come,” he hurried over and began fussing. I closed my eyes and let him fuss.

His long fingers ran through my hair, combing the tangles into a semblance of order. Not for the first time, I caught myself thinking that he would make a very fine lover, for so fine a touch did he have. No wonder Artanis adored him.

“Do stop it,” he growled.

“What?”

“Do stop wondering what I do with Artanis!” he laughed. “It is so easy to read you. You gaze into the mirror, your eyes come to rest upon my fingers...and more particularly, they see the ring Artanis gave me. Then you smile and build happy castles in the air involving her and me.”

“I would like a nephew or a niece,” I said hopefully. “I shall spoil them rotten.”

“It is enough that you spoil Telpë rotten,” he huffed, kneeling before me and fastening my boots. “Now, come away.”

“It will go well,” I told myself, staring at my reflection in the mirror.

I wondered, not for the first time, what people saw in me. I was not as handsome as Macalaurë, who had inherited my father’s looks and charm. Nor had I inherited my mother’s grace. My stay in Angband had done nothing to enhance what little looks I had possessed in the first place. Macalaurë hummed softly as he turned me around for a critical inspection. Then he nodded to himself and met my eyes with mischief twinkling in his own dark ones.

“Yes?” 

“You are going to be the main attraction of the feast,” he chuckled.

If I had been as cynical as Findaráto or as sarcastic as Macalaurë, I would have remarked that people wished to see the strange curiosity that Findekáno had saved.

“It is as well,” I said evenly. “After all the effort I have put in to array myself in this finery, I fully expect to be the cynosure of all eyes.”

He gave me a fond, exasperated glance before taking my arm and pulling me towards the revelries. 

It was very difficult, more so than I had expected. My uncle could not keep me company because of the long array of guests who came to greet the high-king. Macalaurë was first involved in a discussion with a Sindarin minstrel, then he came to press a goblet of wine into my hand, then he was seen in an alcove kissing Artanis passionately and finally he took to the dance floor with her. I knew I would not see more of him again that night. 

For a while, I amused myself by watching the dances. Then it reminded me of my own physical limitations. I had never been one to be depressed by my losses. But to see Macalaurë and many others dancing without a care, their lovers in their arms, did not exactly work wonders on my spirits. Irissë had asked me to dance with her. But I knew I could not risk that. I was not in a condition to exert myself thus.

After I had partaken of a few glasses of wine, Findaráto dragged me to meet Círdan. It was a relief to find someone as alone as I was. I spent a pleasant time in his company, conversation taking my mind off the loneliness I had experienced till then. But each time I saw couples waltzing across the floor, I could not help those pangs of utter misery. 

“Your cousin,” Círdan said. I turned to see Findekáno walking towards me, concern writ on his features. 

Ever since the changed nature of our relationship, I was forced to act very carefully in his presence. It would not do to make my weakness public. 

“Would you care for a dance?” Findekáno asked Círdan, playing the part of the host.

”Not particularly," he demurred. “I was quite content with Maedhros’s conversation. I will let you claim his company should he be so inclined. I am old and I understand I cannot be a very stimulating companion.”

“You do yourself great injustice in describing your virtues thus, Círdan,” I said truthfully. “But if you would not be offended, I shall join my cousin for a dance. I have not danced in ages and wish to see if I can still claim some degree of skill in the art.”

Findekáno was staring at me. I swallowed. What had possessed me to make that statement? I knew I could not dance. Even the most basic of movements were severely difficult for me, though I strove to hide that from my family as much as I could. 

Despite his many faults, some of them unforgivable, Findekáno loved me. Only that love ensured that I lasted the dance without drawing the scorn of eyes that followed our movements warily. My father’s doings had not endeared me to many of the Noldor. If I had tripped and fallen on the dance floor, I knew it would have been a gleeful occasion for the onlookers. Findekáno guided me well, taking care to stick to the simpler moves. 

That did nothing to soothe my frayed nerves. I thanked him graciously and set off, fuming that I had to depend on his charity and kindness to escape censure. Of course, I would have done the same for him. But still, it stung, and it stung badly. 

“You are merely overwrought and imagining something out of nothing,” I told myself clearly, when I was back among the trees that surrounded the camp. 

A wind rustled through the branches above me and I took that as assent to my statement. 

“Now, go back and continue being your charming self,” I said. I was already feeling more confident. Of course, I could do this. 

“Talking to yourself is the first sign of madness, princeling,” an amused voice informed me from above.

I looked up in alarm at what was the dark canopy of the tree. I could see nothing. Was I now imagining things and that too in Sindarin? 

“Nothing there,” I told myself. I found talking to myself soothing at times. It had helped me retain my sanity when I was fastened to the Thangorodrim. 

“Dear me, you truly are mad!” the voice laughed.

I gaped at the direction from which it issued. I wished I had thought to bring my sword along. Then I remembered there wasn’t much I could do with one, except perhaps throwing it at an enemy.

“I mean no harm,” the voice said. A figure landed with a thud before me and I was staring into the bluest eyes I had ever seen in my life. 

“Mablung of Doriath, at your service,” he made an elaborate bow.

“I see,” I found my voice at last. “What are you doing here?”

“I was waiting to trap stray princelings,” his eyes twinkled in good humour. I scowled. It was not a very good jest. 

His eyes were boldly measuring me from head to toe. I fidgeted under his appraisal and waited until his gaze shifted back to meet mine.

“Well,” I asked him again, “What are you doing here?”

“I was bored by the feasting,” he said frankly. “I came to talk to the trees.”

“I shall leave you to it then,” I said curtly. I turned and began to walk away. I had absolutely no wish to endure company this night. 

“There are very many trees here, princeling,” he called after me. “I shall withdraw to another part of the woods.”

“I am not a princeling,” I said crossly. It was hard to anger me. But the foolish endearment nearly achieved the goal.

“Then?” he asked me. “Oh, I remember that you spoke most eloquently about rendering yourself dispossessed. It was an enchanting act.”

“An act?” I asked him baffled, wondering how he of all people had seen through it.

“Indeed,” he laughed. “Anyone who saw your uncle’s paternal affection for you could not doubt it. He bound the fate of his house to yours, didn’t he?”

“I would rather not speak about my family concerns,” I said coldly.

“Then what would you speak about?” he asked me, proffering a piece of waybread. 

I took it from him graciously, for my deeply ingrained courtesy never failed me. But I was none too pleased when he looped his fingers into my left hand and dragged me further into the woods. 

“Where are we going? I need to get back to the feast. If it is about some trade alliance, then you must speak to my uncle.”

“You are unarmed,” he said. “What can you do?”

“What would you need with me?” I asked, fighting down a smile. “And what makes you think that I would fear an elf when I did not fear a Vala?” 

“True,” he chuckled. “You are one pert princeling.”

“I beg your pardon!” I said, scandalized. “How old are you? You address me as if I were as young as a barely come of age lad, which I ensure you, I am not.”

“I woke under the stars, beside the Cuiviénen.” He turned to face me, his eyes blazing blue. “Now close your eyes and hold onto my hand.”

“Why would I want to do such a thing?” I asked him testily. “I must return to the feast.”

“What do you have to lose?” 

He was right. But to accede to his request simply went against my stubborn nature and I shook my head. He laughed softly, his voice devoid of humour, and drew a long sword. I narrowed my eyes. He would not dare threaten me, hemmed in by our people as he was.

“Take my sword, princeling.” He wound my fingers over the hilt of his sword. “Now, come. I swear on my life that no harm shall come to you.”

“I shall come,” I said quietly. “But take your sword. Right now, it may serve me only as a javelin.”

“You are not easily disillusioned, are you?” His eyes held respect as he gazed at me deep and long.

“I simply find it easier to accept the truth of things,” I said frankly. 

“Well-spoken, princeling,” he smiled. “Now close your eyes and hold onto my hand.”

“This is as ridiculous a charade as any I have seen,” I muttered before obliging. 

His fingers were warm and firm as they gripped mine, leading me unerringly without letting me trip over stones or roots. He hummed under his breath. He was nowhere as musically inclined as my dear brother. But the rough voice did ample justice to the hunter’s lay he sung. Deprived of my sight, I found myself concentrating on my hearing. Sounds mingled to create a symphony; larks, cicadas, frogs and the rustling of the leaves above us. I could also recognize the slow lapping of water. My suspicions about a waterbody were proved right when I smelt mud and algae.

“Is it a pond?” I asked him.

“Patience.” One of his fingers came to flick a stroke against my wrist, sending a frisson through my nerves which were all tuned to excitation at the slightest sensation. 

He released my hand. I strained my ears, but they were no match for a Sindarin huntsman as experienced as he was.

Frowning, I was about to open my eyes when he said, “Find me, princeling. Don’t open your eyes.”

“Amusing. Enough is enough, Mablung. I must return to the feast. I am needed there. I have neither the time nor the patience to waste in this folly.”

“Are you a coward then?” he asked me. 

He was baiting me. I knew that. He probably realized that I knew. But the worst thing about our family is that we simply cannot resist taking the bait. 

“Very well then!” I growled. 

“I shall not venture five feet from the periphery of the pond.”

“It is only right that you tell me what I stand to win,” I told him.

“The prize will be well worth it.”

“And I am to take your word on that?” I asked incredulously.

“Of course,” he laughed. 

Thus it was that I bumbled my way about the pond, taking tentative steps, relying heavily on my hearing and smell. Righting my balance after mistaken calculations proved highly injurious to my pride. But he did not goad me. Nor did he encourage me.

I understood what he was trying to do. It was something that I had done myself countless times to improve the morale of a young novice who joined my ranks. 

I was getting used to the lack of sight. Feeling more confident, I even managed to circle the pond once without falling. I was inordinately pleased with myself. The black mood that had hung over me all night was dispelled. Mablung was right. The prize was well worth the effort.

“Stop!” he yelled all of a sudden, panic searing his voice. 

“Wh-?” I did not complete the word before a heavy, warm weight launched itself atop me, effectively sending me into the muddy pond. 

I spluttered and coughed, trying to get the mud out of my mouth. Reflexivity decreed that I swim my way to the shore. But it was then that I remembered I had only one arm. My legs had not yet regained their suppleness of old. If strong arms had not dragged me ashore, I would have sunken like a grain bag. The analogy did nothing to help my wounded pride.

“What was it?” I tried to project the best appearance of tolerant disdain that I could, given my sodden robes and shivering frame.

“A snake,” he said, his blue eyes sweeping the earth anxiously. “You were about to step on it.”

I could see the crisscross tracks of a snake on the wet ground. I heaved a sigh of frustrated relief and said, “I am grateful to you for saving my life after endangering it with that idiotic charade.”

“You benefited from it immensely.” There was no victory in his voice though. When I met his gaze, I could see only concern.

“Yes, it was a profitable charade,” I shrugged. “Now I should get back to the camp and change into something dry.”

“Your resistance to the cold is below Eldarin standards,” he remarked.

I tried to suppress my shivering before giving it up and said simply, “I am more resistant than I was yesterday. Tomorrow shall be better over today. Such is the way of life.”

“The princeling is too wise for its world,” he laughed. 

I raised my eyebrows, but refrained from replying. After putting up with the whims and ways of my family for all my life, enduring Mablung was not very exacting. 

“I shall lead you to the camp,” he offered.

“I expect you to,” I said frankly. “I don’t remember the way. As barter, I can offer you a change of clothes.”

“That is a pleasant exchange. Wet clothes serve little purpose,” he said.

We made our way to the camp slowly. Now and then, I would start a conversation about anything that I thought might interest him. He would rarely reply. I was used to this, from my long association with Macalaurë, who deigned to reply only when he saw fit. So Mablung’s behaviour bothered me not in the least and I was in high spirits by the time we reached the camp.

“Why do you have algae in your hair, Maitimo?” Irissë came across to meet me, staring at me unnerved.

“He must have fallen into that pond in the woods.” Findaráto joined us, his face clearly disapproving. “How many times must we ask you to stay within the confines of the camp until you are well enough to roam the lands?” 

People were staring at the scene. I must have looked a sight with the algae and the sodden clothes…and the shivering body. And my cousin was still berating me furiously uncaring of the onlookers.

“It was my fault,” Mablung intervened quickly. I stared at him. 

“How so?” Findaráto turned to glare at him.

“I lost my footing and fell into the pond. He pulled me out. He saved my life.”

Mablung gazed at me with such gratitude that I rued he was wasted as a warrior. He should have been a politician at Thingol’s court. 

“Can’t you swim?” Irissë asked disbelievingly.

“Sindar,” Findaráto muttered in Quenya under his breath. “Irissë, you know how uncivilized and unlearned they are.”

She nodded and turned back to me saying, “Shall I come to assist you?”

“No,” I said, uncomfortable at parading my weaknesses before the public. “I am sure that I will manage.”

Findaráto made to speak again, but I sent him an imploring glance and he walked away with a huff. Irissë looked me at me uncertainly before following him. The crowd dispersed and I sighed in relief.

“This way,” I led Mablung to my tent.

It was extremely amusing to see the various shades of green which followed each other across his face as he was assaulted by the strong smells of the various concoctions that my healers experimented with upon me.

“Why does this place stink like a pigsty?” he asked finally, dropping tact for shock. “How do you tolerate it?”

“There are days when a pigsty smells better. But you get used to it eventually.”

“Shall I light the other torches?” he asked. 

“Of course,” I replied. “I have sent for clothing that will suit you. In the meantime, entertain me with your thought process. Why did you coerce me into that charade?”

“I have studied under Melian. I know what people need the most,” he said cryptically. 

I nodded thoughtfully and began removing my robes, turning away from him to maintain a semblance of modesty. Removing was always easier than getting them on. But even that had been difficult mere days ago. With time, I told myself as I bent to unlace my boots, it would be equally easy to do other tasks. 

“You are quite handsome, princeling,” Mablung’s voice was low as he interrupted my musings. 

I glared over my shoulder incredulously. His eyes were filled with awe as he gazed upon me. I straightened and looked into the mirror before me to see if the pond water had changed my appearance. The gaunt, shivering figure that stared back at me was certainly one I had been long acquainted with.

“I begin to think that you are mad,” I remarked as I wrapped a sheet around my waist and settled down into a chair to renew unlacing the boots. My toes felt numb and miserable.

“Why can’t you see what you are?” he asked fanatically, coming to stand over me and grab my chin to face him.

Irked, I swatted his hand away and asked, “What exactly am I supposed to see?”

His hand came to squeeze my shoulder. The warm fingers provided such counter-sensation to my cold skin that I jerked involuntarily. When I met his gaze, those blue eyes were flecked with dark spots of passion. It was so different from the mixture of regret, desire, hatred and love that shone in Findekáno ’s eyes. But everything else was almost the same. My unclad condition as opposed to his fully clothed form, the near proprietary grip he had on my shoulder and the reek of masculinity that emanated from him, all reminded me of my cousin. 

“Take your hand off me,” I said in a clipped tone, willing myself not to betray my emotions.

He narrowed his eyes and leant in close to my face, so that his breath caressed my lips when he spoke.

“Do you truly wish me to?”

I swallowed and tried to compose a haughty reply. My mind shouted a thousand warnings as to why I should call out for help and escape from the situation. 

“Lord, the clothes you had asked for,” a woman called out from the other side of the tent flap.

“Remain here,” Mablung patted my shoulder before hurrying to get the clothes and close the flap behind him.

I sat stunned as I realized the danger of the situation. Not only was he a Sinda from Doriath, who had grudges against my brothers and cousins, but also he was a warrior in the prime of his strength. If I shouted for aid, I could probably escape whatever he planned, but it would only serve to strengthen the rumours of my incapacity as a warrior. That I had to scream for help would not improve the trust my people had in me.

“Look at me,” he commanded, the rough voice merely serving to awaken that depraved part of me. 

“You presume a great deal,” I said as coldly as I could. “I don’t wish to indulge in this. Yes, you are right. I am guilty of that weakness you spotted. That does not mean I appreciate my choice being taken away by a stranger.”

“You trusted me enough to walk blindfolded about the periphery of a pond,” he said softly, his eyes shining in the torchlight.

“And look where that has got me to,” I said, plucking out algae from my hair. “It would be foolish to trust you blindly again.”

He did not reply. I made to rise from the chair. But as swift as a swooping vulture, he pushed down back onto it and swerved the chair around, so that I faced the mirror now. The violence contained in his movements did nothing to repress my weakness. I cursed when the mirror showed my pale skin flushed with that dark urge. 

“Stand,” he ordered me, his voice rumbling with desire.

“Of course not,” I said querulously, trying to sound casual and unaffected. “How dare you take advantage of my hospitality so? I have only to call for aid and you will not make it to Doriath alive. We are kinslayers and one more or less matters little to us.”

His hands came to hoist me by my armpits. My eyes stared wildly at the mirror, transfixed by the sight and I knew I was lost if I did not throw him out of the tent.

“Why do you deny yourself so?” his breath taunted my ear.

“Because,” I tried to prevent the tremble in my voice, “I am a leader of my people and can afford to have no weaknesses. I cannot deny that I crave this. I hate myself for it. It is simply fallout of affection-deprived days in the enemy’s stronghold and shall pass with time,” or it would cost me my sanity, I feared. “Now release me. Let us put this behind us.”

“Let me make a proposal,” he released me and stepped away. 

I took a deep breath to calm myself. The danger was past. I should just throw him out and return to the feast.

“You can have me, in any way you wish,” his eyes were assessing as they met mine in the mirror. “Pain, pleasure or humiliation; you can choose to inflict on me. No word shall pass my lips after our encounter. You may add conditions as you see fit.”

I turned to face him, stunned beyond speech. His open countenance held only sincerity. I shook my head in incomprehension. 

“What does it serve you?” I asked. “Bedding me will not gain Doriath an advantage, or a disadvantage.”

“If I can prove to you that you are worthy of being loved, that will be purpose enough,” he said simply.

“My family loves me. My men love me,” I pointed out. “I know I am loved.”

“But you think you are not worthy of their love,” he retorted.

I thought on that and mentally conceded his argument. 

“You are wise,” I said truthfully. “While I am grateful for your offer, I cannot accept. I have an arrangement of sorts with someone else.”

“That arrangement has not helped you understand your worth yet,” he said sharply.

“Physical release is the purpose of a physical relationship,” I stated. “Not emotional fulfillment.”

“I will fight under your command, if you get nothing useful out of this encounter,” he added.

He was a famed warrior. He had known my grandfather. I viewed him speculatively. It was an offer I could not resist. It would be a coup. The cost was a mere hour or two of unpleasantness, which I craved anyway.

“Very well,” I said. “I agree to the terms. I have no further stipulations except imploring you to be discreet.”

“Until my death and beyond,” he said easily. “So what do you wish of me?”

This was the hardest part. I did not know what I wanted in a physical relationship. The only thing I was certain about was that I did not wish to inflict pain. I had no experience in giving pleasure. So the choice narrowed down to that perverse craving.

“Don’t ask me questions, don’t push me beyond what I can bear and don’t kiss,” I said. “Anything else, you may satisfy your curiosity on me.”

“Pull up that chair and sit down,” he said. 

It was an unusual command, but I was too uncaring, preoccupied as I was with mentally assigning my men who would fight under him. A wet tunic fell into my lap and I looked up startled. I drew in a sharp breath as he shed the layers of underclothing, as erotic a spectacle as any I had seen, the sodden garments clinging to his musculature. He was turned away from me, and the muscles of his back played magnificently in the torchlight when his bare torso was finally revealed. 

“You are a very fine specimen,” I said quietly. 

“You are blind, that you see others and you cannot see yourself,” he remarked, without breaking the slow, easy movements with which he slipped out of his breeches. 

He looked like a statue in the firelight, all glorious perfection. Rarely did I rue my disfigurement and scars. I considered them a testimony to my endurance and in a way, I was proud of them. But on seeing him thus, I could not help being conscious of my battered body. Had I been half as handsome as him before Angband? I doubted it.

“Would you terribly mind turning around?” I asked. It was something I had never asked of Findekáno in the many encounters we had partaken of. 

He complied and blood rushed through my veins at a hitherto unknown speed. If I were a woman, I would have swooned, for so handsome was he. The sturdy neck that moulded down into the wide collarbone and strong shoulders, the hard chest which tapered down into narrow hips and well-formed legs.

Since I could not afford to swoon, I said simply, “The Creator must have been in a very good mood when he crafted your body.”

“I had not taken you for a bard,” he said, amused.

“I am no bard,” I admitted. “But perfection inspires paeans.”

“You are a wordsmith,” he laughed. “Now, what would you have of me? It is incredibly fascinating to debate while in the nude. But there are other activities equally interesting.”

I did not reply. He stared me for a long while before sighing in exasperation and walking to cross the distance between us. 

“What-” he began.

“No questions, you promised,” I said abruptly. “Do what you wish.”

There was silence for a long time. I began to think that he was trying to find a way out of the mess he had initiated. For some reason, it did not give me a feeling of victory. 

“Stand up, face the mirror and drop your sheet,” he said finally. Relieved that I did not have to make conversation, I hastily complied. 

His arms came to wrap around my waist and he breathed in my ear, “Whatever I do, whatever you feel, don’t stop looking at the mirror.”

I nodded, slightly worried by those words. What did he intend to do? My tolerance of pain was higher than the most, but that did not mean I had an affinity for it. Or did I? It was a question to which I had no answer. 

Warm, strong fingers came to grip my flanks and kneaded them, leaving red marks in their wake. I gasped in pain and stared in shock at the dark, dilated eyes that no longer resembled the calm grey pools they normally were. When he fell to his knees behind me and began kneading my inner thighs with brute strength, I nearly disobeyed his instruction, for so black was the sudden pain. But the familiar tingle of depravity frissoned down my spine and I gasped, wondering if I did know the transformed creature before the mirror. 

“Spread your legs,” he hissed up at me.

“I might fall,” I warned, bracing myself with my palm against the mirror before obeying him. 

Fingers ran over my taut abdomen, learning my musculature. I swallowed and wondered if Findekáno saw me thus during each joining, as lost in passion and wild as I seemed in the mirror image. I had counted myself among the less fiery scions of my grandfather’s house. When warmth consumed me, I lifted my hand off the glass and shoved the palm into my mouth to stifle my shouts. My nerve endings conspired to send bolts of fire through my bloodvessels, and when his fingers dug possessively into the sensitive region of the perineum, I lost myself to the mad beast within.

“You are heavier than you look,” he complained when I regained something approaching consciousness after Eru knew how long.

“I suppose it is the bones,” I offered as I rolled away and closed my eyes again. 

“I should be going,” he stretched. “I think I won our wager.”

“You are a very handsome man,” I said without opening my eyes. “You are very talented in the arts of the bower. Beyond that, you have proved nothing.”

“You are a stubborn goat,” he said, almost endearingly. I cracked open an eye and watched as he dressed himself in silken robes that did no justice to the magnificent body beneath.

“Just get out,” I advised him. “And be happy that I have not had you slain.”

A low chuckle followed by the rustling of the robes signaled his departure. I heaved myself to a sitting position and glared into the mirror. With an overwrought sigh, I began plucking out the algae from my hair. Of their own accord, my fingers strayed to the still present flush on my high cheekbones. I rose to my feet and inspected my body critically. The scars had faded, leaving only the occasional hard-to-discern white line against the pale skin. With the exception of a hand, I looked pleasing enough. Perhaps those idiots who tried to flatter my features had a soft corner for me. That would mean they held me in some measure of regard. Maybe a few of them even…

“Why in the name of Eru are you staring at yourself, Maitimo?” Atarinkë came into the tent and stopped short, stupefaction playing on his face.

“The scars have healed,” I remarked. 

“Of course they have,” he rolled his eyes. “How many times have we told you that? You never bother to listen. What are you doing?” His gaze swept over the tangled sheet lying at my feet, the bruises on my body and the high colour that still had not left my face.

“Maitimo,” he began incredulously, “what were you-?”

“An accident,” I said hastily. I had no wish to explain the matter to my family. “I fell into the pond. I had come to change my clothes. And you know how clumsy I am.”

He did not believe my version. But he refrained from questioning me further and came to my side, carrying a lump of clothing. We did not speak as he helped me into them, though as he gathered my hair into a braid, he said, “It is a waste of time. You are going to come back in a worse state anyway.”

“Why?” 

His fingers halted in my hair and he asked me quietly, “Are you all right? I overheard Findekáno telling uncle that he was retiring early. I thought that you might,” he struggled to find a word that expressed his disapproval without seeming judgemental, “that you might be meeting him,” he finished lamely.

I had forgotten all about that. I cringed. 

“Just go,” Atarinkë told me. I knew he was angry. But he would not voice his dislike of my personal preferences. 

“Thank you,” I said gratefully. 

He made a face before turning to clean the mess. I hurried out and made my way to Findekáno . My heart twisted when I saw the bottles of ale lying littered about in the tent. I had driven him to drink. When his eyes met mine, it was not merely the nature of our carnal relations that made me drop my gaze to the ground. It was my regret; that I could never be what he wished of me. I could not be his lover, though he loved me more than he loved anything else. I could not even be his friend and cousin, for we knew each others’ flaws too well. 

“Come in,” he said.

I fought down my urge to run away and walked into the tent silently. I could not erase the picture from my mind; of my wild features when Mablung had played his craft on my body. Mablung; I flinched. Even him I held in higher regard than I esteemed my cousin who had braved hell and brimstone for my sake. What kind of a creature was I?

But after a few long moments of silence, I lied quietly, “I was pretending. It tore me apart to relinquish my right to the crown.”

Let him think that it was the political events that bothered me. If I had my way, he would never know the truth. I wished desperately that I could requite his love. But I could not; even strangers had overtaken him in my heart. 

But when he turned to meet my gaze, I realized that he knew. Drink and depravity; there was nothing else that bound us.

When Mablung took his leave of us, he did not look at me. Nor did I go out of my way to speak with him. 

 

The years passed and I kept my lonely vigil in the Eastern reaches of Beleriand. Little did I hear of Mablung in those days. And rarely did I think of him. My depravity had been brought under control by will and vows. Findekáno understood me after a drunken episode in the outreaches of Nan Elmoth, and did not press the issue. It was not a bitter culmination; but it was sad. I had eschewed my demons because of him, but he was trapped by those of my making. 

 

Nírnaeth Arnoediad happened; amidst the carnage, I met Mablung again. I might not have recognized him, for battlelust overwhelmed my sanity. But there had been enemies all around me, and only my reckless courage served to defend myself. I might have fallen, just as my cousin had fallen earlier in the day, but an armour-clad figure rushed in to my aid. Together, we fought our way out of that tight spot.

I muttered a few words of gratitude before turning to ride into the mêlée again. A steel glove halted my horse and I looked up irritably at my saviour. He removed his helm to reveal the features that I had once admired as the height of perfection. 

“My mad princeling,” he laughed and the laughter was still the husky, low rumble. 

I smiled at him and said quietly, “I had not expected Doriath to aid our fight.”

“Doriath does not fight. But you were leading the alliance, and how could I not come?” he teased me. “After all, I had once vowed to fight under you, provided you weren’t satisfied by my arguments in a certain matter.”

I removed my helm and his eyes darkened in memory. He pulled off the glove of his right hand and gripped my jaw, as if to ascertain I was flesh and blood. 

“Are we healed?” he asked me. I knew he was not referring to my physical condition.

“I am more resistant than I was yesterday. Tomorrow shall be better over today. Such is the way of life.” It was the same answer that I had given him so long ago, during a happier time when my uncle had been alive. 

He chuckled, saying, “It is unlikely that tomorrow shall be better, princeling. With the current state of your armies, tomorrow is likely to be a disaster.”

I raised my eyebrows and said quietly, “Let tomorrow speak for itself. We must do what we can and hope that it shall be enough.”

“Always the wordsmith,” he said sadly. “Now I must ride and join my company, princeling. Try to stay alive.”

“I shall,” I swore. 

He nodded and rode away, fast disappearing in the flurry of riders. Impulsively, I called out to him, “Thank you!”

He turned and waved, before rushing headlong into the battle. I wondered if he knew what I had thanked him for. 

“My lord,” one of my aides came to me carrying Findekáno ’s helm, molten and warped by the dragon’s fire. 

The dragon had burned his body to ashes just as I had done with his heart. Did that make my crime worse than that of the dragon?

 

Years later, I was in Menegroth watching as the pyres of my brothers burnt in the crisp winter wind. There had been no deadwood and my men had to cut down living trees. The more superstitious among them had balked at it. I found it ironic; that they feared to cut down trees when they feared not the doom of the kinslayers.

“Elbereth have mercy on their souls,” Oropher was saying quietly.

“Are you jesting?” I asked him. “Varda would have to be mad to show mercy on my brothers. And I can ensure you that she is not mad.”

“Mablung told me that their choices were forced upon them,” he replied sadly. “I pity them for that.”

“Reserve your pity for those who need it,” I said coldly. 

He nodded and turned to walk away. I glared at the black fumes of smoke before running after him to ask, “Where is Mablung? Did we-” I could not bring myself to complete the sentence.

He shook his head. “He was slain by the dwarves, my prince. He fell as befitted a warrior, defending his king and land.”

I managed to smile for the first time since my brothers had fallen. I was very glad. If my blade had felled him, it might snap my sanity. Oropher stared at me, clearly wondering if I were mad. 

I was not mad. I had never been mad, though I had walked the fine line between sanity and madness for the greater part of my life.

I saw Artanis and Macalaurë standing beneath the woods of Doriath, speaking in whispers. And then she leant in to kiss his lips. It was not a gesture of never-dying romance. On the contrary, it was merely a token of acknowledgement. I gazed at the clouded skies, and whispered my silent gratitude to those who had touched my body, and my heart, at a time when I had believed that I deserved nothing.

Heat seared me from within as the clouds parted to reveal a dying sun. And I knew Mandos had marked me. 

I did not fear him; I swore to live, as I had never lived before. It was the best oath I had sworn, for I did not regret one moment that ensued.

 

 

References:  
Canon: The Silmarillion.  
The Song of Sunset

1.The Journal of Fingolfin - Mereth Aderthad.   
2.The Journal of Maglor - The Kinslaying of Doriath.  
3\. The Chalice - Maedhros&Fingon


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